A WELL-ENTRENCHED INSURGENCY (CONT'D)

When the buzz ended, he reached down and pulled the lever at the side of the big fuel tank. There was a whir of gears, and the bottom of the tank lowered down revealing a latched door leading into the ground. He went down the few steps and using the pad there, entered the code. With his memory failing, he thought, one day he’d come out here and forget the code. Or worse, he’d enter the wrong code and find himself plastered onto the side of the barn.

The door swung open, and the automatic lights flashed on revealing the low-ceiling and the multiple shelves of the chamber. He took three sacks from the corner and loaded one mine into each. He carried each up the steps and dumped them into the bed of the truck. Then he went back and grabbed three wireless detonators. The mines had already been rigged so all he had to do was arm them.

The last thing he packed was four interceptor drones. These were one of the best technical inventions of the Resistance and far out-matched anything the Yankees had.  Once the interceptor sensed a kill drone in the vicinity, they would spring to life and lead the kill drone away from the potential target, exploding when it got to a safe distance, thus destroying the kill drone and obfuscating the position of the launch point. Nice piece of tech that. It was the only way he’d be able to drive the distance to Patrick’s farm without being blown to smithereens.

He groaned as he climbed back up into the cab of the truck. Yep, these knees were going to be the death of him. God help him if he had to try to run anywhere. Well, it would be over quick, he thought.

As he pulled past the farmhouse, he could see Monty in the window watching the truck roll by.

“Bye, old friend,” Hornby muttered and headed down the road towards Patrick’s.

Patrick was sitting on his porch when Hornby arrived.  He was a couple of years older than Hornby but in some ways was in better shape. Except for his hearing, which had become much more of an issue after he had his left ear blown off in his own basement, trying to set a fuse.

Patrick got up as Hornby pulled up by the house. Hornby got out and the two old men shook hands.

“Hello, Patrick,” said Hornby.

“Hello, Garnett,” said Patrick. “How’s things?”

“Not bad, not bad. Looks like we might get some rain later.”

“Just might. That’s okay, we could use it.”

“I suppose. Any word from Johann?” Hornby asked.

“Nope. Can’t get any word out of Toronto right now. City patrols are shooting anything in sight. And Musk’s black-shirts are still going door-to-door, pulling anybody they think might have even heard about the Resistance.”

“Johann’s a clever kid. He’ll make out all right.”

“Yep, city still needs transit drivers.” He paused, “So what’s up? The munitions dump?”

“You got it.”

“Figures. When?”

“Right away.”

“Fine. I’ll just get my down jacket. It’ll be colder than a well digger’s butt tonight.”

“Okey-doke.”

Hornby watched Patrick head into the house and then he climbed into the truck and wheeled it around. Then he heard one of the interceptor drones fire up and felt it take off. He watched it head off to the east over the corn fields.

“That’s one,” he thought. A minute later he heard the explosion as the interceptor did its job.

Patrick opened the passenger door and climbed in. He reached over and turned on the radio. CKLM came on. A radio-show commentator was mid-rant.

“… and that’s why we can’t keep up this ridiculous struggle!” said the voice. “It’s useless. We are hopelessly outnumbered, our army is in tatters and besides, is it so bad to be part of the USA? Things haven’t changed that much, have they? Sure, the security measures in place since the annexation are too stringent, but nobody except those in the pointless and dwindling, so-called Resistance are getting hurt. Why not just sit back and enjoy the things we always did? Hockey and baseball and everything else we ever enjoyed. Why don’t…”

“Why don’t you just shut up, Poilievre?” Patrick said, pounding the radio button off.  “Jesus, how I hate that man! And now he’s the fucking governor of South Canada.”

“He used to date Roseanne’s sister, you know,” said Hornby.

“Didn’t know that. Too bad for Roseanne’s sister. Are we picking up Roseanne?”

“Yeah. It’ll be faster if three of us set a mine each and scoot outa there.”

“You bet,” replied Patrick.

But this wasn’t going to be the case. When they drove up the hill towards Roseanne’s house, they could see smoke drifting over the crest.

“Shit,” said Hornby.

“I hope she’s okay,” said Patrick.

The wreckage of what once had been a fine old century home sitting on the banks of a small river was still smoking as they drove up. What was left of the place indicated a missile attack. Like the place had exploded from within.

“That’s a damn shame,” said Patrick. “Should we look around for her?”

“No time,” said Hornby. “It’ll be getting dark soon. If we miss the midnight covering fire, we’ll be cooked. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

He drove up the turnaround and then headed towards Roseneath by the maze of simple dirt roads networked throughout the area. He crossed quickly over the main highway and drove south to the eastern edge of the Northumberland Forest. The munitions dump was on the western edge. When they were about three kilometres from the dump, Hornby pulled off under a grove of oak trees and turned off the engine.

“We using the Hobolt mines?” Patrick asked.

“Sorry, but yeah. But I brought a travois.”

‘Three kilometres?”

“About.”

“Okay. Here, we’re going to need this,” said Patrick, pulling a flask out of his jacket pocket and flipping back the lid.  He passed it over to Garnet. 

“Thanks, mate,” said Garnet, taking a swig. “That’s fine.”

Patrick took a swig and put the flask back in his jacket saying, “We’ll save the rest of this for when we get back to the truck.”

“I admire your optimism, Patrick.”

“Damn straight,” said Patrick.

They unpacked the truck onto the aluminum travois and started off across the fallow field towards the forest. Garnet knew the forest well and knew the least-used routes through it. Less chance of meeting a patrol. He could smell the rich earth all around him. He had farmed this area all his life. Patrick was relatively new here, having retired about ten years ago from his pharmacy in Ottawa. Garnet loved the smell of the fields in autumn, after the harvesting had happened and before the ground became hard, awaiting the snow and the next spring when the cycle would start all over. There’ll always be farms, he thought, even these troubles couldn’t stop that. People had to eat.

They paused to catch their breath at the edge of the forest. Garnett looked around and found a path in and after a minute or two they started in, pulling the homemade sled of mines behind them. They walked quietly, only the occasional crackle of twigs breaking the silence. The whole forest was quiet and dark around them as they made their way west.

It took longer than Garnet had hoped but eventually they were standing at the junction of two paths. A small brook gurgled alongside them. Garnet had fished that brook.

“Okay,” said Garnet. “You remember how to arm the fuse?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick replied. “Of course. First comes blue and the bomb arms true. If first comes red, you’ll end up dead.”

“Very nicely said, Patrick.”

“Thanks. You want me to lay the diversionary mine?”

“If that suits. I have to go a bit further than you so let’s get the show rolling at eleven o’clock, okay?”

“Eleven o’clock.”

Garnet put one of the mines into a knapsack along with a fuse and helped Patrick sling it over his shoulders. Patrick groaned as the weight came down on his new shoulder replacement.

“Dammit. I thought that titanium gadget would be all set to go by now,” he said.

“Okay. Good luck, Pat.”

“See you back at the truck.”

The two old friends shook hands with a smile and Patrick headed off towards the area bordering the dump gates. Garnet headed off down the other path. It was beginning to get darker now, but it was still light enough in the greyness to follow the path. After about half an hour, he stopped and looked at his watch. Ten o’clock.

It was dark all around him now, but he could see the glow of the lights from the watchtowers around the dump. He left the path and, pulling the travois slowly behind him, made his way to about fifty yards from the dump perimeter. The two main buildings housing the munitions backed on to the barbed wire fence surrounding them. A bad choice, that, he thought. But the old forestry buildings had already been there after the takeover, so they got used.

He hunkered down by a bush and pulled out his night-vision glasses. One tower appeared to be empty but the other had a guard in it. It looked like the guard anyway, his rifle held between his arms, and he was asleep. At any rate, he wasn’t moving and had his back to the forest.

“Convenient,” Garnet thought.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to carry both the mines to the back of the sheds, so he brought out the fuses, connected them to the mines and set the timers for about ten minutes after the diversion mine. Then he put one mine in his knapsack and crawling with his face to the mud, inched towards the buildings. He paused once when he thought the guard was going to turn, but he didn’t so Garnett crawled on. He fixed the mine to a post behind the shed and then started to crawl back to the sled.

About halfway back, a spotlight flashed over the ground about ten yards away from where he lay. He held his breath waiting for the light to find him, but it swung the other way and then it was gone. Garnet hurried as quickly as he could, his breath coming in short, sharp pants and his old lungs started to work overtime. He’d quit smoking twenty years ago, but it still affected him.

He moved slowly back with the other mine, really feeling the pain in his back now and his knees throbbed away. But eventually he got there, placed the mine and even more slowly than before, returned to the sled. He pulled the travois back about twenty feet further into the forest and, leaving it there, made his way back to the path.

He glanced down at his watch. Five minutes to eleven. He knew their watches were synchronized because they always set them by the one o’clock CBC news.

It was precisely eleven when he reached the fork in the paths. He decided to wait there until the diversion was set off before leaving the protective cover of the forest. As the second hand swept up to eleven the ground rocked with a huge explosion.

“Nice one, Patrick,” he said to himself. He had forgotten just what a massive explosion these mines gave off and he hoped Patrick had been far enough away when it fired. Then he heard gun-shots.

‘They’ve spotted him,” he thought. He hesitated a few seconds and started off across the fields towards his truck on the hobbled run. Then came the second explosions and then the fireworks started. The sky was ablaze by the time he reached the truck and got inside. He knew that he only had a few minutes before there would be a patrol out.

The night sky hissed and sparkled as explosion after explosion thundered around him. Quite the display, Garnet thought. June would have loved it. They often went to fairs, some quite far away, to take in Canada Day celebrations and the like. Of course, Canada Day was a thing of the past, now.

“Come on, Patrick,” he muttered.

Just then Patrick emerged from the forest. Patrick ran about fifty yards and then just stopped suddenly, looking up.

“What are you doing, Patrick?” he whispered to himself. “Get moving!”

Then the last interceptor drone from the truck bed behind him started up and took off but by that time it was too late. The interceptor reached the kill drone just as it blew. Patrick was dead.

“Aw shit!” Garnett shouted and slammed the truck into gear and took off up the dirt road. After he’d gone about ten kilometers he slowed down and pulled off the road, his hands shaking on the wheel. He sat with his eyes closed for some time before the other explosions came. At least one of the others had reached the dump with secondary explosives that would take care of any remnants of the American outpost.

Garnet thought back to when the world was a more reasonable place. Before the takeover and when his wife was still alive. Now the world was standing on its head. American citizens in American internment camps for not heeding the call. Canadians imprisoned for not kowtowing. Europe in flames. And this was just five years ago. Don’t get excited they had said. Tempest in a teacup they said. He’s all bluster, they had said.

Then the press capitulated. The courts were overrun and now, here they were. Hornby turned the key, and the old engine roared to life. He pulled out and travelled home, not caring really whether the kill drones were out or not. And, of course, he made it home safely. As he rode in down the driveway he spotted Monty in the window. He smiled and waved at him. Then he saw the black shirts waiting for him in the kitchen. 

A travois, for the those wondering